Returning
by SoManyWords
Summary: Part 2 of 'Leaving'. You don't have to read that to read this. Sherlock returns after playing dead.


Returning

It'd been eight years. Eight long, tiresome and Incredibly yet inevitably boring years. Eight years without progress, with continuous movement and hiding. Eight years of missing the people who meant the most to him. Yes, there were people who meant a lot to him and Sherlock wasn't afraid to admit that. Not anymore. Not after eight long, sufferable years parted from those people.  
He had already been to see John earlier that night. That was an experience Sherlock wasn't likely to forget. He'd expected a beating, a yelling, even a cold silence but was greeted by none of that. Instead, John had opened his arms and embraced his friend, too happy to have him back. That infuriated Sherlock. He couldn't comprehend his best friend's reaction. Maybe when the shock was over, Sherlock would truly get what he deserved.  
Sherlock had even been to see Lestrade and Anderson (Who had fainted at the sight of him. Some things never changed, he realised). Greg _had_ been angry and threw him out the office, telling him Sherlock shouldn't expect any cases any time soon. Of course, Sherlock noticed everything and hadn't misread the secret joy in the Detective Inspector's face, made obvious by the curve of his upper lip.  
Mrs Hudson's reaction had been something he wasn't prepared for. Sherlock had expected a clip around the ear, and, naturally, a telling off. Instead, his was greeted with a knowing smile and a simple word of "Finally". Mrs Hudson, wiser with age, had known all along.  
So he had one person left to see; one person he had to thank, one person he was dreading seeing.  
Sherlock stood outside Molly Hooper's house, hesitating before he knocked on the door. It was an odd thing, to be so hesitant. Sherlock wasn't a shy or potentially nervous person. He took things in the moment and embraced the awkwardness of a situation. He basked in it. So standing outside Molly's door, so _hesitant _made him wonder...  
The rain poured down, like the night he left, the cold water soaking his black curls and coat. There weren't any stars in the sky, they were all covered by clouds. How fitting.  
Molly was quick to answer, unlocking and opening the door. Sherlock couldn't help an eye roll. She should have at least checked who it was before answering, especially considering the time of night.  
She opened the door and froze, her head travelling upwards until her soft brown eyes rested on his, her face as pale as a ghost.  
She wasn't in her pjs at the point in the but Sherlock noticed her first few blouse buttons opened, suggesting he'd interrupted her getting changed.  
She simply staring at him and Sherlock knew he should have said something, to ease the tension.

"Molly," He greeted, with a slight nod of his head.

"Sherlock," She whispered, her voice quiet and mouse like, "It's been a while."

Sherlock almost smiled. Almost. It amazed him how she was still capable of her pathetic attempts at humour. "You've aged well," He stated.

"Thank you?"

"Thirty nine?" He asked, his hand travelling up to trace his fingertips lightly around her eyes.

She closed them at his touch. "Eight."

He snapped his hand back and held it at his side. "Ah," He mumbled, slightly frustrated, "Apologies."

"You were close," She said, a faint smile to her voice, "As usual."

He wrinkled his nose. "Wrong. Usually I'm spot on."

"Seven years and you haven't changed a bit."

Sherlock's eyes flew up to her face and his head tilted as his eyes studied her; her faint flush of her skin, the careful lines of her lips, the gentle curve of her jaw. She was still as slim as she was before; still wearing clothes a few sizes too big for her. A few lines tightened her eyes, yet they were still big, brown and soft. She wore large fluffy slippers, so very Molly. There were a lack of cat hairs dotting her clothes. Toby had died. Her hands were small and dainty, her nails clean and long, her ring recently - What? A ring? Sherlock's eyes narrowed ever - so - slightly.

"Congratulations," He said unemotionally.

She frowned, "What?"

"Your engagment."

He was suddenly very aware of the cold rain washing over his face, freezing over his body. Molly had yet to invite him in. Was that because _he _was there? Him? The man who dare take _his_ pathologist. As if on cue, a voice called from the lounge, "Who is it?"

"A friend," She called back, her eyes not once leaving Sherlock's face.

"Well come on, darling! Your hot chocolate will go cold." _Darling._

"One minute."

Sherlock blinked at her. One minute? They hadn't seen each other in eight years and she was about to leave him, standing in the cold? Sherlock's body was ice, and not just because of the rain. He felt so human, so undeniably and so stupidly _human_. She was his. _She was supposed to he his._

"Who is he?" Sherlock demanded, a harsh tone to his voice. So _human._

She blinked, confused.

"His name?"

"Stephen." _Stephen._ So utterly normal. Boring.

"I'll let you get back to Stephen, then." He turned to walk away but she took a step out into the rain.

"Sh - Sherlock?" She called and he turned upon hearing the emotion in her voice. She threw herself into his arms and he could hear sobs rising up in her chest. He hesitantly tightened his arms around her. "Eight years," She cried, "E - Eight bloody years. No word! You could've been _dead_!"

"I was dead, Molly. That was the point, remember?" He murmured softly into her hair. His eyes closed tightly as he held her, an unfamiliar tightening in his chest. He felt so _human._ She muzzled her head in his chest. So human. So human. So human. So human.

"I hate you," She sobbed.

One large hand smoothed her hair, "You don't." She didn't. She still loved him. He could feel it. Eight long years and she still had the same unconditional, moronic, idiotic, beautiful love for him...  
He could feel it. She hadn't any intention of letting him go, despite the rain splintering down.

"Darling?" And it was over. And she was gone, as if she'd been ripped from his arms. In the metaphorical sense, she had indeed been ripped from his arms. He hadn't even known he held her there.

"I have to go... Stephen's calling..." She said softly, the tears from her face. It was unessesary; the rain made sure of that.

"I understand."

"Will - Will you be at the morgue tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then." And she was gone, the door shutting softly behind her.

Sherlock was left, weak and alone, feeling so indescriably /human/.

**Thanks for reading! This was part two of 'Leaving'. You don't have to read that to get this but I'd appreciate if you did. That's quite sad too, so I've been told. :) **  
**Thoughts? X**


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